Language Of The Flowers
by javct
Summary: They showed their love through the forgotten and dust-ridden language of the flowers ;;Sherlock/Amy;; one-shot


**Hello fellow Wholockians! Gosh, it's been so long since I've written any Shermelia/Pondlock (what is their shipping name?) I've been too busy writing Avengers fan fiction :P I hope you like this story - it's not normally what I would write. I normally write 'SOMEONE HAS TO DIE' sort of stories but NO ONE DIES IN THIS STORY! I'M SO PROUD OF MYSELF (especially after 'Dear Natasha')**

**Also, the Language Of The Flowers is a real language, if you want a copy of it, send me a PM and I'll give you the link to the website I use!**

**This was written for Ragna (noregrets-notears-noanxieties,tumblr). I hope you feel better soon!**

**Reviews are as great as real-life Mr. Darcy's and Mr. Bingley's (I just watched 'Lost In Austen')**

* * *

**(At the beginning - Chrysanthemum)**

She was a dreamer.

He was a realist.

.

She wanted to see the world.

He was complacent in London.

.

She wrote sci-fi stories in her spare time.

He didn't understand the solar system.

.

She hated smoking.

He smoked.

.

She could finish a novel in an afternoon.

He could finish two.

.

She was expecting Prince Charming on a white horse.

He didn't care for relationships.

.

She was Amelia Jessica Pond.

He was Sherlock Holmes.

.

It wasn't exactly a conventional relationship. Thank the Lord, that it was only a friendship. Amy and Sherlock met on the eve of the worst snowstorm that London had had in two hundred years. She was impersonating a police officer; Sherlock spotted her immedialty. He waltzed up and whispered, "You're not really a police officer, you're a kissogram." A fight between the kissogram and the consulting detective broke out. She claimed she was and he adamantly persisted she wasn't. Lestrade separated them before they came to blows. She left in a huff. As she left, she passed a bunch of Chrysanthemum's. Amelia found this odd for Chrysanthemum's didn't grow in England. The girl with the fiery hair toyed in Sherlock's mind for the rest of the day.

When he arrived home that afternoon, Mrs. Hudson informed him that he had a visitor. "She was quite beautiful," Mrs. Hudson, said wistfully, "red hair and a short skirt." Mrs. Hudson shook her head as though the thought of the girl's short skirt made her uncomfortable. Sherlock smirked and walked up the steps to 221B.

He entered 221B quietly. He carefully removed his scarf without looking at the girl. He could sense her irritation from where he was standing. When he looked around he saw her in all her glory. She was stunning. Her red hair had small flakes of snow still in it and her cheeks were still pink from the frost. She had her hair falling over her shoulders, but tucked under black scarf. Her skirt was indeed short, but Sherlock had shorter. "Good evening." He said in a mutual tone. He wanted to make it clear to her that she was not welcome here.

"Sherlock Holmes, I've been looking for you," she said.

He was mildly interested. "Oh," he dragged it out, "have you now? Well you found me."

She smiled and stood to her feet. "I need your help,"

"Can't."

"Can't?"

"I have an important case on at the moment; I can't afford to be distracted. Thank you for your interest but I'm done now." He titled his head slightly, "I'm sure you can show yourself out,"

She showed genuine shock. "You can't send me out in this weather!" She exclaimed. "I'd freeze to death. And anyway, I doubt you want me to leave."

Sherlock sauntered forward until he stood directly in front of her. He was taller than her, but only just. "And why is that?"

She stared at him, defiance in her eyes. "Because you don't want to let my case go. Trust me, you're going to love it." Both Sherlock and Amelia stared at one another for what seemed like a lifetime. A knock on the door jolted them out of their staring match.

"Will she be staying for tonight?" Mrs. Hudson pointed at Amy. "The poor girl will freeze to death otherwise,"

Sherlock smirked. "She will stay until this storm is over."

* * *

**(Sometime in the middle - Purple Lilac)**

Somewhere between the end of the storm and the present, Amy had moved in with Sherlock. It wasn't as though Sherlock had asked her, or she had him, she just never left Baker Street. They rarely spoke to one another; instead they left flowers in odd places around the house. Each day, Sherlock would awake and find different flowers outside his door each day. And Amy likewise. This is how the detective and the kissogram communicated. Not through words like all other people in the world, instead, through the dust-gathered and forgotten language of the flowers.

_Coronilla_ (Success to you),

_Flowering Dogwood_ (Am I not indifferent to you?),

_Elder flower_ (Zeal),

_Royal Fern_ (Reverie),

_Flax_ (Domestic Symbol),

_Fringed Genetian_ (Intrinsic Worth),

_Geranium_ (True Friend),

_White Hollyhock (_Female Ambition),

_Orange Lily _(Hatred),

_Purple Hyacinth _(Sorry),

_Love In A Mist _(You puzzle me),

_Lupine _(Imagination),

_Mistletoe _(Kiss me),

_Sweet Pea _(Good-bye, thank you for a lovely time)

Then the flowers stopped. Sherlock no longer woke up flowers at his door and a made cup of tea waiting for him beside his favourite chair. Amelia Pond had left; Sherlock assumed with her doctor-fellow. Her last message to Sherlock 'Good-bye and thank you for a lovely time.'

And so, the language of the flowers was forgotten in 221B, Sherlock acted as though a girl named Amelia Pond never lived there, he began playing his violin again and never gave up looking for that bright blue box in the sky.

* * *

**(A hop and a skip away from the end - Star Of Bethlehem)**

_Rosemary _(remembrance), _Mock Orange _(memory), _Teasel _(Misanthropy), _Thornapple _(I dreamed of thee), _Artemisia _(Absence), _Mixed Zinnia _(Thinking of an absent friend).

These were the flowers that Amelia found at her door when she returned to 221B. Bending down, she picked them up and examined each one. The flowers crumbled at her touch.

"They've been there so long," she didn't turn around at the sound of his voice.

Dusting her hands of the flower dust, she replied, "I bought flowers wherever I went; they're just sitting at the end of my bed, gathering dust."

She swore she could hear Sherlock smile. "And what flowers did you buy for me?" Sherlock extended his hand and he pulled Amelia to her feet, spinning her around.

"I bought you the same flower every day Sherlock," Amy replied, "the flowers that we both know so well: Chrysanthemum,"

Sherlock and Amy smiled at the memory of their beloved flower. "Sighted love," Sherlock said aloud. Amy bit her bottom lip and nodded.

"I'm sorry for leaving you," she whispered, biting her fingernails. "I guess I didn't know what I had until I lost it,"

Sherlock's hand slowly wrapped itself around Amelia's bony wrist. "I didn't even notice that you were gone." He replied. In reply, Amelia kissed him fondly on the cheek and patted where she had just kissed.

"Oh, I missed my boy." She called over her shoulder as she walked into the kitchen. From where he was standing, Sherlock heard a strangled cry. "Why in god's name is there a head in the fridge?"

"It's good to have you home," Sherlock muttered to himself.

The next morning, both Sherlock and Amy awoke with flowers at their doors.


End file.
